Between Life and Death
by Chirugal
Summary: Dead bodies don't freak Abby out - autopsy does. A fic exploring Abby's newfound autopsy phobia, from inception to resolution. Abby-centric, spoilers for Bête Noir, season one.
1. Terror

**Title**: Between Life and Death  
**Rating**: T for autopsy stuff  
**Spoilers**: _Bête Noir  
_**Summary**: Dead people don't freak Abby out. Autopsy does.

**Author's Note**: Hey - long time no see. :) This is the first chapter of a new fic which was supposed to be two chapters but now isn't... oops. XD And those who have been over to my fic journal at (hinkykinky dot livejournal dot com) will know that I'm being really evil by not writing Battle, which I should be doing because it's come out first in the poll. But this story really, really wanted out... Sorry!

* * *

It's dark, and there's something pressing against her face. Material – rubbery, synthetic. Every time she breathes in, whatever it is moulds itself against her face, clinging to her nose and mouth, denying her precious air.

She gasps and chokes and tries to claw away the obstruction, but her arms won't move. She can't even turn her head. She's slowly suffocating, and she doesn't even know why, and it's not fair—

Just as spots begin to appear in her field of vision, faint voices reach her ears, followed by the metallic whir of a zipper. The fabric is pulled away from her face, and Abby gasps in a precious lungful of air, blinking away tears and trying to adjust to the light.

Gerald – Ducky's assistant – is standing over her, and with a growing sense of confusion, she realises she's in a body bag, laid out on the autopsy table. His face remains expressionless as he strips the bag away, carefully lifting her by the shoulders, waist and feet to pull it out from under her.

She still can't move or speak. Frantically, she blinks her eyes, trying to signal to him that she's still alive, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"What do we have here, Gerald?" The familiar voice makes her gasp with relief. Ducky will know she's not dead – he'll figure out what's wrong and make it better.

"Dead forensic scientist," Gerald says, as Ducky comes to stand next to him. Together, they gaze down at her, and Ducky wears the same unconcerned expression as his assistant.

"Pity," he says with a sigh. "I would have preferred to autopsy an agent – at least we have plenty of those as backup. We only had one full-time scientist. It's going to be murder getting the toxicology through relying on locums."

Abby gives a silent sob, but neither of them notice her chest move. Why can't they see she's alive? And if they think she's dead, why aren't they more upset?

"Want me to start prepping her for the external exam?" Gerald asks, with no more emotion than if he's asking what time it is.

"You do that, and I'll make us some tea," the medical examiner answers, moving away from the table.

Gerald picks up the paramedic scissors from the tray containing Ducky's surgical instruments, then pulls at the neck of her shirt, getting into position to cut. _No!_ she screams silently, but no sound or movement alerts him.

The medical student cuts off her clothes with businesslike efficiency, paying no more heed to her exposed body than he would a sack of potatoes. She burns with humiliation; shivers in the chilled atmosphere of the morgue, but is powerless to stop what's going on.

Ducky returns to the table holding a scalpel, and terror gives her senses a sharp clarity: she can see her own face reflected in the blade. Her eyes are wide, staring, streaming tears… surely one of them must notice soon?

"What about the external exam, Doctor Mallard?" Gerald asks with a frown.

Snapping on latex gloves with relish, Ducky waves a dismissive hand. "Later, my dear boy. Internal examinations are so much more fascinating."

_Ducky, this can't be you! You'd never skip the external exam!_ As he picks up the scalpel again, she tries to shrink back from it, but her paralysis encompasses every limb.

"And the Y-incision," Ducky continues, leaning over her, "is my favourite part."

The scalpel slices deeply into her flesh, cutting through skin, subcutaneous fat and muscle. Though the ME's training allows him to wield the implement with finesse, he doesn't take as much care with cadavers as he would with a living patient – the Y-incision is made briskly.

The pain is excruciating, and she screams mutely, watching the movement at the edge of her vision as Ducky drags the scalpel from each shoulder to her sternum, and then down her abdomen, swerving around her navel, finishing just above her pubic bone. _Stop! Don't! I'll die, I'll die, I'll—_

Sickened and panic-stricken, she watches Ducky fold back the skin and muscle of her chest; feels it rest against her arms. His fingers come away slick and red with her blood, and she almost expects him to notice her heart is still beating. But he doesn't – because it's not.

Her head spinning with bewildered revulsion, she tries to concentrate on her breathing, only to realise that she can no longer draw in precious oxygen. _No! No, no, no, no!_

"The shears, please, Gerald," Ducky says cheerfully, and a mental shudder ripples through Abby's mind. Her ribs won't break without a fight, and when they shatter, they'll be ten times more painful than the Y-incision…

Ducky positions the shears, then begins to apply leverage. Abby's vision tunnels as her bones are squeezed between the blades, until they snap with a sickening crack that makes her want to vomit. Over and over, he repeats the motion, severing each bone in turn until her mind is one long, agonised shriek of distress.

When Gerald lifts away her ribcage, she stares at the ceiling, trying to ignore the lattice of bloodied bones above her. She knows what comes next – the lungs will be first, then the heart…

"Hey, Duck."

_Gibbs!_ her mind screams with relief. He'll put an end to this madness – he has to!

"Jethro – to what do I owe this pleasure?"

Gibbs steps into her line of sight, glancing down at her disinterestedly before directing his gaze at Ducky. "Takeout's here, if you want it."

"Excellent. Let's eat in the lab," Ducky replies, stripping off his bloodied gloves. "I want to finish going through our victim's music collection."

"Don't we have to finish the autopsy, Doctor?" Gerald asks.

"All in good time, Gerald. Chow mein and Android Lust wait for no man. She'll be fine like this – it's not as if she's going anywhere…"

Shrugging, Gerald pulls off his own gloves and follows Gibbs and Ducky out of her line of sight. The morgue lights flip off, and Abby is left there, in the dark, sliced open and helpless…

* * *

With a yell, she wakes, her body cocooned in her bedsheets. Though she can see the ceiling of her bedroom through the night-time gloom, she remains absolutely still, her eyes streaming tears, convinced that if she sits up her organs will spill from her ribless, skinless chest onto her lap. For long moments she lies there, her breath seizing with sobs, until the nightmare slowly releases its grip on her.

Tentatively, she sits up, disentangling her arms from the sheets and pressing a hand to her chest. Her heart is pounding beneath her ribcage, and she struggles out of bed, switching on lights the whole way to her kitchen, where she takes a Caf-Pow! from the refrigerator with a shaking hand.

"Come on, Sciuto. Get it together," she whispers, and goes in search of her headphones. The only cure for a dream that bad is music – really loud music.


	2. Panic

**Author's Note**: I know, I know... this is not sexy Gabby fun. _ The last couple of weeks have been so full of work/housework/family stuff that I haven't really been in a mood to write smut. So you get angst instead. XD But trust me, as soon as life calms down it'll be Battle I'm writing. I so wanna finish it... Anyway. Just to remind you guys, this isn't actually a shipper fic... so you can see Gabby if you wanna find it, but there's none that I specifically included. :p

* * *

She's managed to grab a little sleep by the time her shift starts at fourteen hundred hours. As she begins to set up for the day, the phone rings. Abandoning the latex gloves she was about to put on, she reaches over and answers the call. "Lab…"

"Abby." Gerald's voice is enough to bring her mind crashing back to the previous night's dream, and she tenses so much that her shoulders begin to ache.

"Hey, Gerald – what's up?" At least her _voice_ sounds normal.

"Got blood and tissue samples for you, but we're a little tied up right now, so I can't bring 'em up to you. You mind coming down?"

"Sure," she says reluctantly, trying to relax. "Be right down."

Crossing the lab, she breathes deeply to try to calm herself. _It was just a stupid dream – it's not exactly something that's gonna happen to you, right?_

Squaring her shoulders, she walks out to the elevator, staring at the button that will summon it. The downward arrow seems to taunt her; she gets the sense that if she reaches out to press her finger against it, it will morph into a tiny mouth with razor sharp teeth. _Oh, come on…_

Impatient with herself, she presses the button, but as the mechanism behind the steel doors grinds to life, the dream flashes back into her mind. The slash of the scalpel; the snap of the shears… Before the elevator arrives, she flees back to the lab, shuddering. _I'll go down for the samples later._

Throughout the next hour, she casts nervous glances toward the phone, half-terrified that Ducky will call to question her absence, half guilt-stricken that she's neglecting vital tests. Behind her, the elevator still seems menacing, as if waiting to ferry her to her doom.

Just as she's screwed up enough courage to try again, the elevator pings, startling her. Apprehensively, she looks around to watch Gibbs walk in, a couple of evidence bags in hand. Her knees go weak with relief when she glimpses the vial of blood inside one of them.

"Gibbs!" Taking the bags from him and hastily transferring them to the table, she flings her arms around his neck. "You have no idea how glad I am to see you right now."

He folds his arms around her in a brief hug, then releases her, looking her over quizzically. "You okay? Ducky said he expected you down to get those."

She busies herself signing the chain of evidence forms, shrugging. "Been busy."

Gibbs' gaze sharpens – she never could lie convincingly to him. "Talk."

Shamefaced, she turns away. "There's nothing to talk about," she says crankily, hoping to drive him from the lab without further questions.

Gibbs doesn't reply, but she hears the scrape of a chair being pulled across the floor, and the rustle of his clothing as he sits down. _He won't stay long – he doesn't have any coffee with him._

It only takes a couple of minutes for her to emerge from her hopeful denial. He's made up his mind, and he'll get an answer from her one way or another. She looks over at him, and finds him studying her with no sign of boredom or irritation. "Not everything is your business, you know," she snaps.

He shrugs calmly. "I needed those samples running an hour ago. You didn't collect them. That makes it my business."

_Damnit! I hate it when he's right._ "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry – be honest."

She holds out a few seconds longer, then surrenders with a sigh. "Promise not to laugh?"

Gibbs nods, and she decides against insisting that he say it out loud. She looks pathetic enough already. "I'm scared to go down to autopsy."

Whatever he'd expected, that wasn't it. An eyebrow rises as he tries to reconcile the situation with what he knows of Abby, but he's obviously coming up blank. "Scared."

"Yeah." She chews on her lower lip, awaiting his condemnation.

"Of autopsy. The place you go every day, sometimes just to visit Ducky."

"Yeah." She can't look at him. _He must think I'm insane._

"Why?"

Everything spills out in a rush. "I had a nightmare last night. That Ducky and Gerald were autopsying me, but I was still alive, but they didn't notice, and they weren't even upset that I was dead, and neither were you-"

Despite her intentions, her voice cracks, and she keeps her back turned so that he can't see the tears in her eyes. _Like he doesn't already know they're there._

"Abbs."

She spins to counter his accusation before he makes it, frustrated. "I know, I know, I'm overreacting. But I'm not exaggerating this, Gibbs! I can't go down there!"

"Never said you were exaggerating." Sensing her surprise, he shrugs. "When you're in a warzone, you see stuff."

Part of her wants to ask what he means, but she knows he'd never elaborate. "Oh."

"But you already know what I'm gonna say, and you won't like it when I do."

She saves him the trouble, her mouth twisting ironically. "'Get over it,' right?"

He smiles faintly. "Not the way I was gonna say it, but yeah. You won't get past this without facing up to it."

Another shudder wracks her body, and she nods, trying to quell the butterflies in her stomach. "I know."

"Want to try now?" One hand brushes the weapon at his hip. "I'm a little too heavily armed for Ducky to try anything."

She tries to laugh, but it emerges a sob. "I guess now's as good a time as any."

Gibbs puts an arm around her shoulders, and together they walk to the elevator. While they wait for it to arrive, Abby digs her fingernails into her palms, mentally scolding herself. _You wanna act like a crazy person in front of Gibbs?_

The doors open, and Gibbs steps forward, his hand between her shoulder blades encouraging her on. Somehow, she takes the couple of steps required to get her into the elevator, then closes her eyes, trying to think of something safe and familiar. Her mind goes blank when the doors close behind her, and once again she sees herself lying on the autopsy table, her rib-cage being lifted away-

"Abby." Gibbs' voice is sharp, and his hands on her shoulders ground her. Through the rapidly forming spots in her vision, she manages to look at him, and he curses, leaning over to hit the emergency stop switch before they reach the morgue. "Breathe."

It isn't until he calls her attention to it that she realises she's stopped breathing. Trembling, she gasps in a breath, not pausing to let the air out before taking another. "Slowly," Gibbs instructs, and she tries to breathe normally, in and out.

_But I can't go down there, I can't, I can't, I can't…_ _Blood on Ducky's gloves. Body bag over my face. Can't move, can't speak, can't get away… _The only effect that breathing has is to keep her conscious – she's still light-headed and swaying on her feet, her eyes wide and frantic. "Don't make me, Gibbs, please please please please-"

For a second he seems torn, but then he nods, diverting the elevator back to her lab. The ride up seems to take forever, but as soon as the doors open she stumbles out into the hallway and through to her lab, clutching onto her worktable and shivering.

Gibbs pulls her into a hug, murmuring for her to calm down, his solid, comforting presence anchoring her. Clinging to him, she bursts into tears, the adrenaline of the fight-or-flight instinct draining away. "I'm sorry," she mumbles after a while, wiping her eyes on her shirt sleeve. "I've never been so scared in my life. But it makes no _sense_!"

When Gibbs steps back, she winces at the wet patches her tears have left on his shirt, biting back another apology. He doesn't seem to notice; regarding her with concern, he takes a second to decide the best course of action. "You need the day off?"

Shaking her head vehemently, she stands straight and tries to look composed. "That's not gonna help. I think I'll be okay, as long as I don't have to… y'know."

Gibbs nods, analysing her for a moment longer before he judges her composed enough to leave on her own. "I need to see what's going on up there. Can you work, or do you wanna sit with the team for a while?"

"I already screwed up by setting the toxicology report back an hour," she says, a little bitterly. "I'll get on it now."

With another nod, he turns to leave. A thought hits her, and she calls his name. "Could you… not tell anyone about this? Please?"

He pauses in the doorway to regard her shrewdly. "I won't tell – if you work something out with Ducky and Gerald."

_Guess I saw that one coming._ "I will," she replies, and he continues on his way, leaving her to contemplate her newfound phobia.


	3. Context

**Author's Note**: Finished this one, finally! :D It's helpful if you've seen _Bête Noir _before you read this - I haven't laid out the entire episode.

* * *

A month passes. Abby comes to an arrangement with Ducky: Gerald acts as a runner between her lab and autopsy, something she thanks both of them profusely for at least three times a week.

She still feels ridiculous, and is glad that outside of the three men she's told, no one else knows her secret. Every few days she considers testing herself again, but each time gets no further than staring at the button that will call the elevator to take her to autopsy. Without fail, the following night the same _bête noir_ visits her, renewing the strength of her phobia.

And then comes the day of the hostage situation down in autopsy: Ducky, Gerald and Kate – _it should have been me_ – are held by an unknown, unnamed terrorist for over an hour, and she can barely function through her guilt.

_I'm sorry, Kate, I shouldn't have made you go down there… I'm so sorry; please don't die…_

A voice cuts through her remorse; quiet and calm, yet firm. "Maybe you're not there, Abby, because you're needed here."

_Help them_, her logical mind agrees with Gibbs, and she somehow manages to suck it up, returning to work to do what she can to aid her team.

A flurry of forensics tests later, she stands by Tony's side, watching the elevator doors close behind Gibbs as he heads down to negotiate with the terrorist. While Tony confers with the tactical unit, Abby keeps a silent vigil in the corridor, praying for his safe return until two phrases steal the breath from her lungs.

_Shots fired!_

_Agent down!_

She rounds on the nearest member of the tactical team, demanding, "Is it Gibbs? Is he okay? Tell me he's alive!"

There's a commotion, and she doesn't know where Tony is, and no one will give her any answers, and she doesn't know what to do-

The nearby elevator pings, and a cool clarity of purpose calms her mind. Shouldering her way on, she tells the guy regulating the elevator traffic, "I gotta get down there." Whatever he sees in her face is enough to make him acquiesce, and she rides the car down, surrounded by unsmiling, armed men.

_Wait! This is autopsy you're going to! _the irrational voice in her mind screams.

_Gibbs is hurt_, the rest of her snaps, shutting it up. When the elevator doors open, she's the first one out into the hall, and she dodges past several agents to stand in the doorway to the autopsy suite.

Gibbs has been shot in the shoulder and is surrounded by agents, gritting his teeth through the pain. Kate and Ducky are grim-faced, and Gerald is carried past on a stretcher, bound for Bethesda. The only fatality is the terrorist, who's lying face-down on the floor.

As soon as she's double-checked that everyone that matters is safe, Abby turns to find Kate, wrapping her arms around her and squeezing tight. "Oh my god, Kate, I'm so sorry…"

The agent lets her babble for about thirty seconds before holding up her hand, halting her. "Don't worry about it, Abby. Better me down here than you."

Before Abby can tell her exactly what she thinks of _that_ assessment of the situation, Ducky lays a hand on her shoulder. "How _did _you manage to get down here, anyway, my dear?"

Turning to hug him in turn, Abby thinks of the autopsy room just a few feet away, surprised to realise that only a mild uneasiness remains. "I took the elevator and didn't freak out. Well, I was already freaking out, cause I didn't know what was going on. I was just so worried about you guys, I guess I managed to get over the worst of it."

Ducky pats her on the shoulder reassuringly. "It's good to see you back in my domain, so to speak."

"I haven't actually been in, yet," she admits, fidgeting. "I kinda leaned around the door to check everyone was okay, but…"

Putting a hand between her shoulder-blades, he steers her toward the morgue. "Let's get that part over with before you change your mind, shall we?"

Taking a deep breath, Abby walks over the threshold and into the room, steeling herself for the shrieking of her subconscious and the remembered images of her nightmare-autopsy. Nothing happens besides the fear of her phobia kicking in, and she grins victoriously at Ducky. "I think I'm cured!"

Across the room, Gibbs is cursing under his breath, and she looks past him to the body on the floor. It's turned face-up, now, and… _Wait._

It's not the terrorist she managed to get a visual on with her video-probe. _But how…?_

Commotion descends again as Gibbs calls to the remaining tactical guys, who have been milling around with their guard down since the bad guy was declared dead. Snapped back up to high alert, they begin to search for traces of the guy they'd been negotiating with, and Ducky moves to Gibbs' side, Kate and Abby on his heels. "How on earth did he get past us?"

"I dunno, Duck."

Abby decides that now's not the best time to point out her triumphant presence in autopsy. _He's injured and pissed off, and you really don't wanna get in his way when he's in that kinda mood. He's like a grizzly bear that way_.

Laying a hand on his uninjured shoulder in place of the hug she'd usually give him, she tells him, "I'll check the surveillance cameras."

"Thanks, Abbs," he says distractedly, scowling down at the young, decidedly dead guy on the floor. Given a purpose, Abby heads for the elevator, making way for the couple of paramedics whose difficult task it is to convince Gibbs that he needs to go to the hospital. _Good luck…_

* * *

It's fairly easy to determine what happened by looking at the video footage: the terrorist brought his accomplice into autopsy after locking Kate and Ducky away, and the accomplice took the bullet for him while he used the tactical unit's expectation that there was only one bad guy to get away.

_Sneaky. And he ruined a perfectly good flexible video-probe by shooting it out, not to mention Gerald's joint and Gibbs' shoulder._ Somehow, Abby doesn't think the boss-man will rest until they've tracked him down.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. She tries to determine the terrorist's identity, but he wore gloves, and she hasn't been able to find anything else to ID him with. With no other leads, she heads down to autopsy to help Ducky clear up the mess the tactical team made.

She's in the process of picking up a spent smoke grenade from the floor when the idea hits her. "Ducky…?"

A few hours later, she's lying in the darkness atop the clean autopsy table, listening to the low, electronic hum of the cooling systems in the mortuary drawers. She doesn't feel a hundred per cent comfortable yet, but she's almost there, and sleeping in autopsy seems like a good way to speed up the process.

She runs through the events of the day in her mind again, trying to figure out exactly what it is that's bugging her. She can't pin it down until Gibbs' words flash back into her mind: _Maybe you're not there, Abby, because you're needed here._

"That's it," she whispers, sitting up and frowning into the gloom. It shouldn't be possible, but it's way too much of a coincidence for her to ignore…

Ten minutes later, she's on her way to Gibbs' place. It's not even midnight yet, so she's pretty sure he'll still be in his basement, nursing his shoulder and a grudge.

When she clatters down the basement steps, he's staring at a printout of the terrorist's face as if it can come to life and identify itself. "Gibbs!"

"You okay?" he asks, getting to his feet. Realising that she's coming across as a little too frenzied, Abby tries to tone it down a little.

"Yeah. I just… need to talk."

He inclines his head, motioning in the direction of the wooden stool he was sitting on, and she sits down as he asks, "This about your autopsy phobia? Saw you down there earlier."

"I know. But it's hinky, Gibbs. Really hinky." His face shows no comprehension, so she spills it. "I first had the dream like, a month ago, right? And whenever I thought I was getting over it, I'd have it again. But then today happened, and _poof!_ No more phobia."

He opens his mouth to speak, but she interrupts. "I'm not done." He leans against his boat, seeming a little amused despite himself, and she continues, "So, specifically, in that dream, there were a few things. And they all happened today! First off: I was in a body bag. And the terrorist smuggled himself in, inside a body bag."

Gibbs isn't buying it, but she's still not done. "And Ducky said he'd have preferred to autopsy an agent rather than a forensic scientist. But get this – Kate, who's an agent, went down to autopsy in my place because I was freaked out."

"Abby-" he tries to interrupt, but she doesn't want him to start picking her theory to pieces until she's laid it all out.

"And Ducky told Gerald to start prepping me for the external examination, while he made some tea. And one of the things that was bagged and tagged at the crime scene was a box of tea, which I had to locate a duplicate for in a hurry so that I could start testing it. _And_ Ducky in my dream said it'd be hard to get toxicology results without me – and if I'd been down there in autopsy with the terrorist, I couldn't have tested the evidence or found a place to get the duplicate items, so he'd have gotten out with what he wanted."

She stalls for a second, gathering her thoughts, and Gibbs takes the opportunity to ask, "You done now?"

"No! Another thing: Ducky in my dream said he wanted to eat takeout in my lab because he wanted to finish going through my CDs. He actually said 'chow mein and Android Lust wait for no man'. But get this – when I got the call from Ducky to return all the forensic evidence and the blood to autopsy, I was listening to Android Lust!

"And then earlier on, you said that maybe I wasn't down there because I was needed in my lab. I think that's it, Gibbs. I think the nightmare was to make sure I couldn't be held hostage with Ducky and Gerald, so that I could work the forensics in time to make sure the terrorist didn't get the smallpox virus."

Now that she's got it all out, she relaxes a little, the turmoil in her mind quieting somewhat. She already knows Gibbs won't be convinced, but at least she's shared her theory.

After waiting a couple of seconds to ensure she really is done, Gibbs asks, "And who's responsible for sending you the dream? God?"

_Trust him to pick on the one weakness in my argument_. "I don't know. Probably not God – I know He's got a lot more important things to worry about. A guardian angel, maybe?"

"How about a fairy godmother?" His voice is slightly dry, but it's more a gentle teasing than exasperation. Part of her is surprised that he remembers how, what with the terrorist getting away from him, but she gets the feeling that his anger hasn't yet begun to build momentum.

"Very funny. I bet you didn't even believe in Santa Claus when you were a kid." Gibbs only cocks his head, choosing not to confirm or deny, and her brain continues to mull over the events of the day.

The truth hits her out of nowhere, and her eyes widen. "ESP. It's gotta be!"

She glances up just in time to see him roll his eyes. "Abbs, you _still_ believe in Santa Claus, don't you?"

Abby has a whole theory on that one, but she has more important things to muse over right now. "Come on, Gibbs – scientifically speaking, we only use a teeny portion of our brains. My subconscious must have made the connection that today was gonna happen before it did, and it fabricated the dreams to warn me…"

"For your brain to piece together what might happen, you'd have had to be at Little Creek Naval Base last week. Your dreams started a month ago," he points out, and she sighs.

"You're way too cynical, you know that?"

The ghost of a smile passes across his face. "Yup. But you can believe enough for the both of us."

He has a point. "How's the shoulder?"

"Painful."

Concerned, she tosses him the bottle of painkillers sitting on the workbench. "And your pride?"

"Don't wanna talk about it, Abbs…" His voice holds an edge of warning, and she backs off, leaning over and swiping his bourbon bottle before he can chase his medication with alcohol. "What?"

She glowers at him. "You're not supposed to mix codeine with alcohol – are you trying to make yourself throw up, or pass out, or worse?!" He only blinks at her, and she realises the thought really hadn't occurred to him; his brooding over the terrorist has clouded his judgment. "They're both depressants of your central nervous system, and mixing the two is just plain stupid! Worst case scenario, you could overdose and die! It's Chemistry 101, Gibbs. Stay there – I'm gonna get you some coffee."

"Does this make you my nursemaid, or my guardian angel?" he quips, as she runs up the stairs.

"I'll settle for 'friend'," she calls over her shoulder, disappearing into the kitchen and leaving him to smile faintly at his boat.

"Done."

_END._


End file.
